


Death Strikes Swift and Sure

by itswallie



Category: DCU, Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: CADMUS - Freeform, Gen, Mole - Freeform, Speedster Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itswallie/pseuds/itswallie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wally is the mole. Five times he killed and the one time he couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robin

The trigger word is *****, and Robin is first.

His rosy lips glisten as they part mid-laugh, "I mea-"

But the brunette doesn't finish his sentence; he slows, frozen in time as Wally shifts into hyperspeed, as he vibrates faster than the speed of sound. The redhead's emerald eyes go glassy, empty now, just vessels for a vicious little Voice hissing _kill, kill, kill_.

It's odd. Sliding into hyperspeed is like dropping into a poor photograph: a picture taken by a careless photographer of unsuspecting friends. People, halfway between expressions, have one drooping eyelid as they complete a blink, the edge of their lip curved in a goofy twist as it wraps around a syllable. They look silly, and it took a long time for Wally not to laugh.

But never Dick. Even now, his head tilts just to the left toward Wally, chin down but eyes up, peeking over the top of his sunglasses. His eyebrow coolly climbs his forehead into his trademark smirk. As he turns from the latest episode of Flaming C, he's pressing against Wally's shoulder, their thighs flush on the couch. He's passing a Doritos chip to his starving redheaded friend.  
And he looks great.

Wally carefully cups his best friend's perfect cheeks and leans in, into the half-formed word hanging from Robin's breath, and as he pushes through the solid soundwave, he can hear the next syllable: "-n."

Dick's skin is cool against Wally's warm palms, and he's almost close enough to graze their noses as he rotates his friend's head farther to the left, a little farther than it should go. From Wally's perspective, it's a slow, almost gentle turn, and maybe if it had been slow, if it had been gentle, the flexible acrobat could have twisted his neck that far around his shoulder.

But it's not slow and gentle, and Wally steps on the bag of chips at their feet to cover the sickening crack of Robin's vertebrae - _the highest ones, the highest, they make it quickest, the most painless_ \- as the bones - _so beautiful, so fragile_ \- fracture into pieces and slice through the brunette's delicate spinal cord.

Sometimes, Wally will count the seconds between what he sees and what he hears to gauge his speed, the way children count the seconds between a flash of lighting and thunder to guess how far away away a storm is. Normally he counts the seconds, but this time he feels only microseconds slip by.

He can't breathe, neither of them have time, and Robin's lungs will never remember how.

Wally stares, unseeing, into the dark mirrors of Dick's sunglasses that slide just below his eyes; the redhead's own reflected image slips away with them. His friend's irises flood with Wally's favorite shade of blue as the pupils constrict in shock, and today they match his evening-sky colored hoodie.

He cradles the wilting boy before he can slide onto the couch, and he arranges Robin, just so, under the comforter they had shared. Anyone who wanders by will think their leader had settled in for a nap on his side.

One hand is tucked beneath his soft, dark hair and the other across his chest over the blanket; knees are tucked halfway to his torso. Wally leaves Dick's feet out just past the bottom of the comforter. The acrobat always keeps them free, so that if he needs to get up to fight, they won't get tangled. Wally gently loops the bottom ankle over the top one, though, replicating Dick's cute bad habit of inefficiently interlocking his calves.

Robin is Wally's life-sized porcelain action figure, with more than 230 points of articulation.

Strands of Dick's shiny hair still hang suspended above his head; they haven't had time to fall on their own. The speedster doesn't have time for this, but he takes a full half-second to run his fingers through the wisps, ruffling them so they drape naturally over his forehead and sunglasses. He's _wasting time_ , the Voice hisses, but he takes it anyway, for a reason he can't recall.

4.6718 seconds and counting.

He's wasted too much time but also not enough. As he dashes from the room, Wally doesn't notice that Robin had bitten his cheek hard when his head snapped to the left, and now a thin trail of blood pools at the edge of his lips and drips onto the couch.

* * *

_Everything hurt; everything burned. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't see. He wished he could stop crying because the tears stung as they coated his cheeks. His mouth tasted like blood and something bitter; he couldn't remember which part of the formula it could be._

_An EMT leaned over him, carefully brushing a stray lock of singed hair out from under the bandages over his face; he opened his mouth in a silent wail as the ambulance careened around a corner before it slowed in front of the ER. The doors swung open, and two doctors greeted the EMTs inside with shouted commands and information._

_"First degree chemical burns … prep the OR … explosion on Pine street four minutes ago … retained consciousness … patient intubated … "_

_Wally registered yet another prick at his inner elbow. The morphine finally kicked in._

_They carefully lowered the gurney to the ground; the little redheaded boy rolled his eyes - what remained of his right one - to the skies and the faces above him._

_Barry was already there. He beat the ambulance._

_It took the damaged, sedated boy a few seconds to remember how that was possible, but when he did his face contorted in guilt and shame._

_Barry jostled the EMTs aside; "Hang in there, kid - it'll be ok, you're alive, that's what matters," he said before the nurses and doctors pulled him back and rolled Wally toward the ER._

_"... I'm sorry," Wally tried to say, "I didn't mean to."_

_But he couldn't speak, and it was obviously a lie, anyway._

_Wally heard his parent's car pull in behind them; his hysterical mother slamming the door and racing toward Barry._

_"Barry, Barry, where is he? Is he ok? How did you get …"_

_Barry wrapped an arm around Mary's shoulder. "They have him, Mary. I was here on forensic business already … they're going to …"_

_Their voices faded as the sliding doors closed at Wally's feet and they pushed him into the operating room. Everything was happening too fast and too slow at once._


	2. Aqualad

The sound waves from the television lap at Wally's back as he springs into the hallway. It is far too late to outrun that  _snap_ , and he hopes that the sound of the crushed chips and the television are enough to cover it -- also to cover the eerie silence that follows the abrupt end of the laughter-laced conversation with his best friend. 

 _Faster, **faster**_ , urges the Voice,  _before Superboy hears, before Superboy notices the missing heartbeat_. Wally races toward his room for his suit, his efficient, perfect stealth suit; his jeans are already starting to smolder at this speed.  
   
But Aqualad is in the hall, halfway out the door to the pool.   
   
Tiny drops of water float behind the tall, graceful Atlantean, and a towel runs through his blond locks, shaking them away. Wally has time to see the light refracted through each one, sparkling hypnotically as they break against the tile.   
   
But now the towel is on the ground, and Kaldur’s back is against the lockers just inside the room.   
   
The door takes eons to close while Wally slides his fingers over Aqualad's silver eyes. The mocha eyelids shutter closed almost as slowly -  _wasting time, wasting **TIME**_ \- hisses the Voice.   
   
As his bare hands wrap around the swimmer's neck, he doesn’t think about his freshman year trip to the Central City Aquarium, or the way he illicitly slid his fingers over the sandpapery smooth skin on a passing sting ray in the tide pool. Aqualad’s delicate gills flutter around his fingers as he digs into them, but he doesn’t remember how similar the movement looks to the soft undulations of a crimson Spanish Dancer passing by him in a dimly lit tank that day.  
   
He doesn’t wonder, as he has so often before, whether Kaldur has bifurcated lungs allowing him to breath on land and underwater, or whether he has two sets, or maybe just one can handle both air and liquid. He doesn't ask whether it’s mostly cartilage that forms the intricate structures in his neck, or if it’s tiny bones that are collapsing under the pressure of Wally's palms now.   
   
He doesn’t ask all the questions he'd meant to, all the questions that occurred to him when Aqualad wasn’t there, or he'd been too distracted playing _Portal_ with Robin, or when they'd been too busy bringing down the Joker.   
   
And he can’t inquire about the pointed barbs hidden inside the stiff red webbing that prick his skin, or about the neurotoxin he feels creeping up his arms. The redhead hisses in pain, but the Voice won’t let him free. 

 _Faster faster painless painless he won't know what hit him_ - it assures.  _You should have gotten your suit_  - chides the Voice behind his empty eyes.   
   
Tingles turn into needles into _knives_. He presses through the growing numbness as his metabolism works through the poison almost as fast as it spreads. He pushes until Kaldur's tattoos flare reflexively; bright blue light and electricity snakes through the Atlantean’s perfectly toned biceps, shoulders and chest and into Wally's heart, one last self defense mechanism. The blast knocks Wally out of hyperspeed and throws him across the room, but he recovers just before Aqualad hits the floor.  
   
Another four seconds to check for pulse and breathing.   
   
Only absolute stillness remains.  
   
13.73 seconds and counting.

 

* * *

 

  _The hospital bed dwarfed Wally’s tiny, battered frame, and Barry sat down carefully to avoid jostling the burned boy. Tears pricked at the corner of Wally’s healthy eye as he refused to meet Barry’s gaze._

  
 _“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Barry said softly. They were alone; Iris was driving Wally’s parents back to their home, finally, so they could sleep._  
  
 _“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried …” His face crumpled. “I just had to try.”_  
  
 _Barry knitted his eyebrows in understanding. “I know.”_  
  
 _There was no point to scolding him now._  
  
 _“What did I do wrong, Uncle Barry?” Wally demanded, balling his hands into fists, but wincing before his fingers closed halfway._  
  
 _Barry only shook his head. “I’m not sure.”_  
  
 _A moment passed before Barry cleared his throat. “Wally, what happened to the notes? Were they in the garage?”_  
  
 _The redhead nodded sadly._  
  
 _“That’s probably for the best.” Barry bent over to very gently ruffle Wally’s hair. “You’re just so_ young _, kiddo. I would have …” he sighed. “Visiting hours are almost over, Wally. I have to get going. You sleep, ok? Things will get better soon.”_

_Wally frowned at his charred and bandaged hands as the door clicked shut behind Barry._   
  
_The freckle-faced boy couldn’t sleep though, and several hours later, Wally was still staring out the window at the moon when the door fell back open. The night nurse, carrying a glinting silver tray with a hypodermic needle, stepped inside._   
  
_“Well, hello there, Wally,” she said, in a sweet lilting voice. She didn’t check his chart for his name._   
  
_“Hi,” he replied sullenly, not turning away from the window._   
  
_“How are you feeling today?” She leaned over the end of the bed, dark curls falling into her rich, tanned face._   
  
_“Crappy,” he replied, wearily turning to face her._   
  
_The nurse threw her head back in laughter, almost dropping the needle. “Whoops,” she grinned. “Well, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?”_   
  
_“More morphine?” he asked._   
  
_“Oh no,” she purred. “You’ll like this much better.”_   
  
_Wally wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”_   
  
_She winked at him. “Do you believe in magic, Wally?”_   
  
_Wally snorted. “No.”_   
  
_“Oh, all little boys believe in magic.” The beautiful woman pouted as she leaned into the moonlight to tap away air in the syringe. She was stunning, and Wally blushed in spite of himself._

_“I’m not little. Or too young,” he growled._  
  
 _“Well, that’s true. But you are special. You’re just missing a piece. Like this.” She swabbed his arm and slipped the needle into a vein at his elbow._  
  
 _“That’s medicine,” Wally informed her. “Medicine is_ science _, not magic.”_  
  
 _She pulled the needle away and patted him on the head before she sashayed out the door. “Of course it is, sweetheart. Sleep well.”_  
  
 _Wally didn’t feel any different as he fell back against the pillow -_ not a very good painkiller _\- and he was_ pretty _sure he wouldn’t like her. At all._  
  
 _… if she weren’t so pretty._


	3. Miss Martian

Two and a half more seconds to change. As Wally's hand hovers over the stealth mode toggle on his insignia, he feels a gentle mental push. The freckle-faced boy freezes.

M'gann briefly projects the image of the perfectly still Aqualad over their telepathic connection, and a wave of her sadness and confusion washes over him, emotions now alien and bizarre.

A soft tendril of investigation follows: _Hello? Who's there?_

M'gann is scared.

 _She know she knows_ \- the Voice is panicking now - _She's supposed to be_ **later**. _Now they know. Now_ **everyone** _knows._

Wally hasn't had a lot of time to play RPGs like _World of Warcraft_ , but he gets that when fighting a mob, you eliminate the more fragile enemies first.

M'gann is not fragile.

Wally cuts a bright yellow ribbon to the kitchen to grab a bottle and a small square object before dashing back toward the pool locker room where Aqualad lies. Just around the hall corner, he pauses. M'gann has left the locker room, and he watches as she turns away to peek carefully into the training room a few feet away.

He springs toward her.

All that remains in Wally is the Voice, and apparently M'gann can't hear it, because she doesn't even begin to glance behind her as the speedster knocks her into the large room. The startled Martian lashes out instinctually, shape-shifting new limbs in Wally's direction with blinding speed - almost half as fast as the speedster himself moves, as he shatters open the neck of the bottle he holds.

He jumps into the air to dodge a tentacle aimed at his feet, but she lifts a hand and grabs him telekinetically. Immobilized, he hangs four feet off the ground in front of her, legs tucked under his thighs, arms spread, a broken bottle in one hand, a silver glint in the other. His pupils are constricted so tightly that his irises are almost solid green.

The terrifying red glow in M'gann's own eyes begins to bleed away as she recognizes him.

"Wa - ?" she begins in a shocked whisper.

Shards from the bottle are suspended in her invisible web, and the sherry it contained spreads toward the Martian in a lazy, wet arc from its broken neck to her white shirt. Wally is frozen; the bottle is frozen; the sherry is frozen. But the tiny, bright spark from the silver Zippo lighter, snapped open in his other hand, wheel slipping under his thumb, cannot be contained.

Before M'gann finishes her thought, the glittering light hovers past him toward the alcohol. He can almost see a splash as it presses against the nearest drop, and then - then the flames skip toward her, amber and flickering, dancing down the line of liquid. They match her eyes; they match her hair that is now blanching white as she melts into her true form.

She's all angles, sharp lines and white claws, and heart-wrenching sound, but she is beautiful, always beautiful, no matter what.

She lets go, and Wally drops to the floor with a thud and runs, runs from the heat and the smoke that makes his eyes water.

He runs; he runs from the sound - the sound of a hundred fingers rubbing the wet edges of a hundred wine glasses.

The sound of one hundred angels falling from heaven.

24.3441 seconds and counting.

* * *

_"Cookie?"_

_The pretty nurse, the one who came every night before Wally fell asleep to give him his shot, was back. It was afternoon, though, and she was in civvies: a pretty purple pencil skirt and silver blouse._

_The "accident" that_ should _have given him Flash powers was just over week ago, but he was still in the hospital._

 _She pushed aside a magazine and newspaper that had rested on Wally's knees and sat down. She winked and crossed one knee over the other, leaning toward him, cookie in hand. Her shirt was a little low cut; not that Wally minded_ that _much._

_"Thanks." Trying not to stare, he shyly looked up at her through his lashes and palmed the cookie. After a week and a half of skin graft operations, he was understandably hungry. Kind of starving these days, really. It was hot and soft and gooey - just the way he liked them. He grinned as took the last bite and licked a chocolate chip off his finger._

_The nanites flooded his system._

_"Uhm ... do you have any more?"_

_Bemused, the nurse raised her eyebrows. "Of course."_

_She pulled a ziplock bag out of a large designer purse and handed it over to the boy. He tore into it greedily, and she just smiled, tossing her black curls back over her shoulder._

_"Soh' …" he said through a mouthful of snickerdoodle. "Why aren't you in uniform?"_

_"Oh, I don't go on shift until much, much later." Her thick, rich accent rose and fell; it sounded maybe Middle Eastern. "I just came by to see how you were doing, Wally. I hear you're being released tomorrow. Aren't you happy?"_

_He shrugged sadly. "I guess it could be worse," he whispered, dropping his scarred, cookie-covered hands out of his line of sight._

_The nurse pouted sympathetically. "Aww, don't feel bad. I hear you're making quite the recovery. Not a single infection after all those surgeries; even on antibiotics, that's impressive. You must be very special."_

_Wally flushed red and ducked his head. "I was stupid."_

_"Nonsense." She cupped his chin and pulled his gaze to hers. "You were brave."_

_Wally blinked at her in confusion with his one good eye; his right was still sewn shut. He would probably never see out of it again. The olive-skinned woman turned slightly behind her and ran her fingers over the magazine and newspaper at his feet._

_"So what's this?"_

_Wally turned red again and slapped his hands over the articles about Robin and Speedy, but she had already snaked them out of his fingers._

_"Oh, the Boy Wonder and Speedy, hmm? You're a fan?" she chuckled._

_"Uhm, not really," Wally lied._

_"Are you sure? Aren't they about your age? Don't their lives sound fun?" She was staring intently at him now, with other-worldly lavender eyes._

_Wally frowned and swallowed. "I guess …"_

_She threw her head back and laughed. "Now I know you're lying. All little boys believe in magic, and all little boys like superheroes." She pulled out her purse again. "Are you telling me you'd turn down a chance to meet them?"_

_Wally balked a little at her question, self-consciously raising a hand to his scarred and damaged eye. A week ago he'd have accepted in a millisecond, but now … what he did was just so embarrassing. He failed. And maybe he_ could _have met them. As a fellow_ hero _. Tears pricked the corner of his eye. But not now. Not like this._

_"Uh, nah. They wouldn't want to meet me." Wally folded his knees up to his chest. "I'm just an idiot."_

_"Don't be ridiculous. Things may turn around. In the meantime, I can give you a little present, and ... "_

_She pressed a four-inch (more or less inaccurate, Wally scoffed silently) Robin action figure into his palm. As Wally stared dumbly at the toy, the nurse leaned into Wally's ear:_

_" ... and say that I know you would be the best of friends."_


	4. Artemis

Wally doesn’t remember blacking out, but he comes to on his hands and knees in a dark corner of the hanger deck when he hears crackling over his comm link. He doesn’t remember why his ears are still ringing, or his eyes are watering, or why he’s fighting off another wave of nausea.

 _Don’t throw up, you **fool**_ \- the Voice nearly screams. He’s also hungry, and he doesn’t remember why.

Another voice, sharp, familiar, and feminine, yells through his heat-damaged comm: “—Sup—oy —lly — Robin’s — down — heard M’ga—think —elp—”

He does remember, however, that the voice cutting in and out in his ear belongs to someone who shouldn’t be alive.

He jiggles his comm link and hears another voice, male and mournful - “ _M’gann …_ ” - and he’s relieved. Grief is slower than rage, and he has to use every second of it to his advantage.

Back to the girl.

“Conner, where’s Wally?” She’s shouting now. “We need him! I think I saw Zoom - mayb -”

 _Excellent._ The Voice is triumphant. _The idiots still don’t know. Stay toggled to yellow. That will be more confusing. And hurry._

Wally doesn’t need to be told twice.

Artemis goes the fastest, but he is also the sloppiest with her.

The speedster finds her in the rec room, kneeling next to the couch by the broken boy whose name Wally can’t quite place. Her bow and arrow is at the ready, and she faces the door he comes through. She must have only seen him for a _millisecond_ , or perhaps she sensed him some other way, but he doesn’t notice the slim arrow she let loose until it passes right in front of his chest.

 _Ah, such talent._ The Voice mourns her loss almost as much as Wally can’t.

He speeds up a little more. At this point, he reaches up casually, plucking the feathered shaft out of the air in front of him, and then he’s behind her, and it’s piercing her chest, right through the “eyes up here” logo that he joked about that morning. Lifetimes and lifetimes ago.

Weary, the speedster slides out of hyperspeed, just in time to hear a soft gurgle from Artemis’ parted, perfect lips as he pulls the arrow back out. Her blood drips down her spine and over his red glove, dying it a darker crimson.

As she falls into his arms, he kneels under her weight and lets her lower naturally to the floor. A strange feeling of relief passes over him when her head slides into his lap because there is no spark of recognition in her blue eyes. He cradles her paling cheek in his left hand, silken gold hair flowing out over his elbow and then gently closes those eyes. He lingers for no reason.

 _Hurry up_ \- gripes the Voice.

He almost misses Superboy’s entrance.

Wally dodges Conner’s first blow but not quite fast enough: Conner nabs him and slams him against the wall. The redhead is pinned at the shoulders, all the weight of an enraged Kryptonian against him. The anger on his face fades, though, when he recognizes his friend, covered in Artemis’ blood, still clutching the arrow that killed her.

“… Wally?”

Wally can’t answer; his empty eyes are focused miles beyond the Kryptonian.

70.5624 seconds and counting.

 

* * *

 

_“Wally isn’t home right now,” Mary West informed the woman at their doorstep. “School’s just letting out.”_

_“Oh, that’s too bad.” The pretty nurse shifts a box from one arm to the other, offering a hand to Wally’s mom. “I treated Wally at the hospital, and I just came by to see how he was doing.”_

_Ten days had passed since Wally had been released from Central City General. He’d spent the first weekend wallowing in his bed hopped up on morphine pills, which slowly became less and less effective. He’d originally attributed this to a growing tolerance - until one morning when light filtering into his blind eye woke him up. Wally raced to the mirror: his body was already rejecting the heavy stitches sewing his eyelid shut. The next day, he felt wonderful, both green eyes open and shining._

_It was only a matter of three more days before Barry agreed to take him on as Kid Flash._

_Now, when he spotted the pretty nurse on his doorstep, the speedster ducked behind the neighbor’s fence to slow down. He noisily skidded to a stop before backtracking to sneak onto the sidewalk beyond their line of sight. The nurse pretended not to notice as she handed a box to his mother._

_“I made some cookies for him; I hear he likes chocolate chocolate chip.”_

_Mary smiled graciously as she took the box. “Well, that’s very kind of you. I’m sorry that he can’t thank you —”_

_“I’m here! I’m here!” Wally called, waving and jogging to the yard at a human pace. He’d fashioned a key chain out of the Robin figurine, and it bounced from one of the zipper pulls on his backpack. Mary narrowed her eyes at Wally’s carelessness: getting home from school in thirty seconds wasn’t exactly subtle._

_The thick black curls fell forward to frame her face as she bent over to ruffle the boy’s red hair._

_“Thanks for the cookies,” Wally said, a blush creeping up behind his freckles._

_“Well, this is quite a recovery you’ve made. We were wondering why you hadn’t gone to any of your follow up visits.” She grinned. “But I see you just don’t need to.”_

_He shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah. Something like that.”_

_Her smile dropped, and she stared at him seriously. “Almost like magic, wouldn’t you say?”_

_Wally snorted smugly. “Nope.”_

_“Then you’re a very lucky boy.”_

_He shrugged, considering it. “I guess so, depending on the definition of ‘luck’. Statistically speaking.”_   
_“I’ll just take these inside,” Mary interrupted from the doorway, shooting Wally a ‘Be Quiet’ look as she left. “Thanks again.”_

_“Pleasure meeting you,” called the woman. She turned back to the redhead and leaned into his ear. “Can I teach you a magic spell anyway?”_

_Wally wrinkled his nose at her in distaste, and she laughed. “Fine, fine. Think of it as a good luck charm.”_

_She whispered a lilting, musical phrase softly against his earlobe. His face blanked out for a second before she backed off again. “Did you get that, Wally?”_

_The boy shook his head: “Uhm, what? Sorry, I didn’t quite catch it. Was it a foreign language?”_

_She smiled enigmatically. “Yes; it’s very, very old. But don’t worry about it. There’s probably no such thing as good luck, either, anyway.”_

_He frowned in confusion._

_“Well,” she continued, “I’m going back to my country.”_

_“Really?” Wally’s face fell slightly. “Where are you from? Are you a nurse there, too?”_

_Her lavender eyes sparkled. “Not really, no. I’m more of a … specialist. I just came to say goodbye and to see that you’ve recovered. And you have. Enjoy your cookies, Wally. Best of luck to you.”_

_“Thanks, you too!” Wally waved goodbye as she walked back to a shiny new beamer; he raised his eyebrows._

_Some specialist, he thought as he stepped inside._

_“Wally!” his mom called. “Come set the table. And don’t eat all those cookies. do you really know her?”_   
_“She’s fiiiine, Mom,” Wally whined. “I already ate some at the hospital.”_   
_“Well, at least save them for dessert …”_   
_She peeked her head around the corner: Wally glanced guiltily over his shoulder, the last of the dozen cookies half-eaten in his hand._

_“Shorry,” he mumbled through a mouth full of peanut butter buttons. Wally’s mom just shook her head and wandered back into the kitchen._

_Wally did the same thing to every box of cookies that arrived from the pretty nurse for his birthday and Christmas for the next four years._   
_  
_


	5. Chapter 5

Wally waits. The muscles in Superboy’s arm, braced from elbow to wrist across his shoulders, relax into his surprise, one by one. The redhead tests the strength of each of them, squirming underneath their pressure. When Superboy finally backs off in disbelief, _just_ a quarter of an inch, _just_ for a tenth of a second, that’s all Wally needs.

He pushes away from the wall and slams an elbow into Superboy’s nose. Conner reels again, more from shock than from damage, but the speedster’s long gone. He growls and follows the yellow figure.

 _The vault, the vault_ \- the Voice chants in Wally’s head - _You’re in trouble now, idiot; not enough time, not enough time, not enough time._

Superbly is fast, but not as fast as the redhead, and the speedster loses him in the labyrinth below the mountain.

 _Down, down_ \- the Voice hisses. _Go where Robin showed you._

Wally finally skids to a stop in front of a deceptively normal looking door: wood paneled with an average round knob. But Wally knows that it’s steel reinforced on the other side, with a specially designed lock behind the handle. He ignores the 9 digit keypad beside the door - _no time for the hundreds of millions of combinations_ \- and grabs the brass knob. He can’t vibrate through the door, so he vibrates against the handle.

Seconds tick by, but a red glow spreads over the yellow metal as Wally slowly - _impossibly, frustratingly_ \- heats the knob and the door beyond. The false wooden surface begins to blacken and flake, until the little red embers flicker to life, and small flames lick up toward the ceiling.

The metal is melting, softening, searing. Artemis’s blood on his hands smolders; the thick smell of burning iron permeates the air. The heat peels away the specialized rubber on his red gloves: his palm is blistering and flaking now. Wally cries out in pain, but the Voice won’t let him stop or even pause.

_Wasted time, wasted time, you idiot. You’ll fail. You were a waste._

Wally knows Superboy is only seconds away from following the smoke and stench here.

The lock mechanism finally softens enough that the door collapses inwards. The careless way he breaks the door triggers the security system, and deafening alarms sound.

He hears Conner scream and fall to his knees with a thud down the hall as the alarm damages his sensitive ears.

 _Excellent_ \- congratulates the Voice - _Unusually thoughtful._

 _This_ room was why Conner had to be _last_ ; this was why Wally needed every extra second. The alarms would have brought all five of his teammates down on him at once, and he would have been trapped and almost defenseless.

Now he and Superboy are alone. Now he stands a chance.

The alarms are so loud that he speeds up a little faster, just breaking the sound barrier. His ear cups protect him from the resulting small boom, and now the alarm waves flow over him slowly, softly, and he can concentrate.

He tears off a wooden panel on the side of the desk, revealing a solid steel safe reinforced with four inches of lead.

No time to melt it.

Adrenaline and endorphins flood his system as he taps desperately at the six digit keypad on the door, pounding through 40,000 possible combinations faster than he’s ever moved before. The door clicks open somewhere around in the 056000 range, and he digs wildly through the safe.

He finds the small metal lock box beneath an amulet and files on the Joker.

The alarm flips off suddenly, and moments later Superboy rips off the rest of the smoking door.

Wally is in the process of melting the lock on the box when Conner dives for him. The completely spent and hurting redhead only manages to dodge once before the Kryptonian pins him to the floor. Superboy’s forearm slides up Wally’s collarbone and over his throat, but he doesn’t apply quite enough pressure to really hurt him.

“Wally, stop!” he says, a desperate note slipping into his voice. Superboy sounds more deeply confused and scared than anything else. “What’s … Is this Cadmus? Don’t make me do this. You can fight them. I know you can!”

But Conner looks unsure as Wally struggles mindlessly beneath his weight.

 _What does he know?_ scoffed the Voice. _For all of his preparation, he can’t hear this._

And the redhead’s ignoring him, beating the box against the concrete floor with one hand until it pops open, and the contents scatter across the floor.

Glittering shards of Kryptonite.

Conner pales and tries to trap Wally’s right wrist before he reaches a piece: Superboy’s too slow. Wally wraps his fingers around a a particularly sharp splinter and jams it into the dark-haired boy’s right shoulder; Conner lets go of Wally’s throat to cradle the bleeding wound.

Wally’s just faster than his cry of pain, and he can’t hear it.

The yellow-clad speedster grabs the remaining pieces and runs across the room. Conner is still struggling to his feet when Wally places one round green lump on his palm and flicks it away, like he’s just playing paper football with his friends.

It leaves his hand at the speed of 800 m/s.

And lands in Superboy’s knee.

Conner starts to fall back toward the ground an Wally launches another, hitting his opposite thigh. Two more in non-vital places, but he’s getting sloppier, more fatigued. He’s so hungry.

 _Careful, careful_ \- hisses the Voice.

The last one flies off Wally’s palm toward Conner’s unharmed shoulder, but the Kryptonian leans into it, and Wally misses, and it hits him right above the eye.

86.2904 seconds and it’s over.

The moon is black tonight above the Cave.


	6. Interlude

85 seconds ago, a silent alarm sounded in the depths of The Light satellite headquarters in Happy Harbor. As an office worker lazed back into his chair with a steaming cup of coffee, a blinking red light flashed on his desk.

The young man’s eyes widened, and, panicking, he slammed on his headset: “Red light emergency, I repeat, red light emergency. White rook has castled kingside early. White rook has castled early. Quickplay in category II tournament initiated ahead of schedule.”

The alarms in the room beneath Mount Justice had gone off by now.

Someone in an office upstairs swore.

“What the hell set it off? Turn off those alarms; dispatch clean-up crew to Mount Justice. And for goddsakes blow up a bomb in downtown New York to keep the capes busy.”


	7. And the One Time He Can't

Wally stands in the hallway just outside the rec room: he’s been waiting for almost ten minutes. The genderless, monotone Voice has fallen silent. Wally’s on the balls of his feet, feet should-width apart, knees slightly bent, elbows cocked at his hips. He bounces up and down, almost imperceptibly, like a video game character caught in a battle-stance animation cycle. A tiny trickle of sweat slides down his cheek and around his slightly parted lips, and he’s still panting, hot and wet, from the strain of the moments that came not long ago.

Wally’s eyes remain vacant, though, empty green irises staring at the wall across from him as he awaits further instruction.

In front of him, the kitchen is in shambles. His stomach growls softly.

He doesn't remember.

* * *

 

_Wally doesn’t remember the way a flour tornado coated the team in a thin layer of white yesterday. Or the way everyone groaned as the dust settled, revealing Wally at the center of the chaos. He shrugged at them sheepishly, holding half of the dozen freshly-baked macademia nut cookies in his hands._

_“Whoops,” he laughed lightly, turning to M’gann. “Sorry about that, sweet cheeks.”_

_The pretty Martian giggled back and reached for the paper towels. “Don’t worry, Wally. It happens to the best of us, right?”_

* * *

 

Behind him, credits for _The Flaming C_ roll to an end; children in an inane toy gun commercial run screaming around their yard, soaking each other in multi-colored goo. A small boy runs laughing toward the camera as he wins their game, pumping his fists in the air.

Robin still faces the TV, and Artemis slumps below him, seated on the floor, head lolling back on the cushions like she’s passed out at a friend’s slumber party. Neither are watching anymore.

Eventually, blue light from the Zeta Beams flicker over the trio, and Light agents swarm the war room, buzzing through the corridors of Mount Justice to collect their spoils. Professor T.O. Morrow marches through the entrance, snapping orders impatiently at the drones, and Psimon and the pretty nurse stroll in behind him.

“This is a disaster,” T.O. Morrow complains under his breath, but the “nurse” still catches the gripe. Tossing thick black curls over her shoulder, she sighs in annoyance.

“Maybe _you_ shouldn’t have designed faulty nanobots, Dr. Morrow,” Bihytra purrs. “Because my work was flawless.”

T.O. Morrow snorts derisively. “ _That_ remains to be seen. _This_ wasn’t supposed to happen for _months_. And then, only in _emergency_ circumstances. Your sister won’t be pleased, Bihytra.”

The Bialyan’s chocolate brown eyes narrow. “Leave Queen B to _me_ , little man.”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of getting involved,” T.O. Morrow smirks. “Let’s see how extensive the damage is.”

His white lab coat swishes as he turns toward Psimon, who has wandered over to Wally and is peering curiously at his freckled face from below. Wally doesn’t even acknowledge him, and looks blankly past Psimon’s exposed brain.

“Psimon,” T.O. Morrow calls, “Can you detect the clone?”

Psimon smiles thinly. “Not really; I believe he’s dead.”

The scientist’s expression darkens, and he glares at his olive-skinned companion. “Fan _tastic_ ,” he says roughly.

“Whose fault is _that_?” Bihytra snaps back. “That’s none of my concern. I didn’t write the software, I just installed it.”

“And what did you set as the password, my _lady_?” the scientist sneers. “ ‘ _Awesome, dude_ ’ ?”

A Light agent interrupts their bickering: “We’ve recovered the clone, sir. It seems he suffered a fatal shot above his eyebrow from a Kryptonite shard.”

“Fatal? Are you sure?” T.O. Morrow frets. He glances over at Psimon nervously. Psimon’s wan, smug smile never fades as other agents enter with Conner’s body on a stretcher. He runs a hand over the Kryptonian’s temples and through his hair analytically.

 

* * *

 

_Wally doesn’t remember the sound of Conner’s annoyed, confused growl when he wins at his favorite pastime: steal the last bite of the of the peanut butter button from the Superboy._

* * *

 

“Well, he hasn’t been dead for very long,” Psimon pronounces. “If you remove the shards, his prognosis should be quite good. His memories may never recover, though.”

“Those memories are hardly of use now. He was probably getting too attached anyway. Perhaps this is ..”

“… for the best?” Psimon finishes.

“Mmm, yes,” Bihytra concurs. “He’ll be once again a nice, malleable, _good_ boy. I prefer those.” She glances over at the speedster a few yards away. “Don’t I, Wally?”

No response.

T.O. Morrow waves the agents carrying Superboy on. “Get it to the hospital and remove the kryptonite. The meta-healing should kick back in and repair it,” he directs. “And, for that, great thanks for small favors. Cadmus wouldn’t be pleased if we terminated their hard work.”

“What about the rest of the damage?” he continues. “The Martian may have stood a chance.”

The Light agent pales a little. “Uh, nossir. The blackmail measures for her … or the archer … will no longer be … uhm, effective,” he says delicately.

T.O. Morrow exhales harshly. “Very well. They were backup anyway.”

Another suit passes by carrying Artemis’ corpse; tiny dots of blood trail behind her. “Don’t get sloppy, Agent Tomer,” the doctor barks. “Let’s not leave any evidence behind. We’ll have more leverage over the League if they think we’ve kidnapped them and that they’re still alive.”

“Yessir, sorry sir,” he apologizes as he shuffles into the Zeta Beam behind him.

 

* * *

 

_Wally doesn’t remember the feel of Artemis’ elbow in his rib as she scolded him: “Geeze, Kid Fat, leave some for us.”_

_“Soooorrrrry,” he whined through a bite of moist brownie._

* * *

 

Morrow makes a note on a clipboard the agent hands him. Behind him, the agents carefully carry out a mangled form wrapped discreetly in white sheets: M’gann.

 

* * *

 

_Wally doesn’t remember the fond, patient look in M’gann’s eyes as he’d playfully dusted the flour out of the red strands in her hair last night, while more brownies baked in the oven._

* * *

 

“Who’s next?” sighs T.O. Morrow, and more agents shuffle by, carrying the prone form of Kaldur. He is as tranquil in death as he was in life, one arm draped lightly over his chest.

The doctor cocks an eyebrow. “I suppose we can use this opportunity to learn a little more about Atlantean physiology. Take him to the lab for study.”

He waves the black-suited agents away.

 

* * *

 

_Wally doesn’t remember the sweet, salty smell of Aqualad as he reached past the speedster for an oatmeal and brown sugar treat; Kaldur smiled indulgently as he split it in two and passed half to Wally._

* * *

 

T.O. Morrow looks again for Psimon. The small-statured man has moved past the Wally to the couch beyond, where he bends over Robin’s peaceful form.

“Hmm,” he murmurs.

“Is that Batman’s untouchable puppet over there?” T.O. Morrow asks. “I imagine the ‘Dark Knight’ has buried his ID quite well, but that should be useful information.” He smiles for the first time since he arrived. “We can run his fingerprints and DNA at the -“

“Oh my,” interrupts Psimon. “That will be quite unnecessary, I’m sure.”

Both of his companions cock an eyebrow while Psimon holds Robin’s sunglasses aloft. He cups the boy’s chin in his other hand.

“Ms. Bihytra. The word ‘bachtz.’ Where is it from?”

Bihytra flushes bright red. “How do you know that word?” she demands.

Psimon chuckles and waves toward Wally. “Oh, I pulled it from our braindead friend over there, of course. Don’t worry. Your trigger word is buried quite deep. Took me the entire time we’ve been here to do it.”

He glances back at her. “It doesn’t quite sound like modern Bialyian, though.”

The brunette sneers. “Of course not, do you take me for a fool? It’s ancient. No one uses it anymore.”

“But … ” Psimon continued. “It derives from the Persian ‘baxt,’ like most ancient Bialyan, does it not?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Did you know that there are some languages that still use the term unaltered?”

Bihytra’s eyes narrow. “They would be quite rare.”

“Rare indeed,” agrees Psimon.

He stands up and puts the sunglasses on his own, tilting his head up at the light, as if he were trying to see the world through someone else’s eyes. “And this is where I share that _Romani_ is one of those languages. And that _Dick Grayson_ was Romani. And by ‘ _was_ ’ I mean until your brainwashed drone killed Robin approximately fifteen minutes ago.”

Psimon levels his gaze at his colleagues and grins wickedly. T.O. Morrow drops his pen.

 

* * *

 

_Wally doesn’t remember the way Robin scraped a stray bit of sugar cookie batter off the edge of the silver mixing bowl. Or the taste of his fingers as the speedster licked it off them before Robin could bring them to his mouth, faster than anyone could see._

_“Augh, Wally, yuck,” Dick complained, but Wally just shrugged his shoulders in wide-eyed-innocence from across the room._

_“Wasn’t me!” he denied._

_Robin made a face and rolled his eyes as he wiped his fingers on his designer jeans, but everyone laughed, and that was enough for Wally._

* * *

 

“Dick Gray …?” Bihytra huffs and crosses her arms. “And just how was I supposed to know that _Robin_ was _Dick Grayson_? Much less that he spoke _Romani_?”

She spins toward T.O. Morrow. “I won’t be shouldering the blame for this, Morrow. You can count on that. My sister will hear of the poor execution in your progra —”

T.O. Morrow finally recovers and throws his head back, laughing. Bihytra sneers and jerks away when he claps her on the shoulder, but the scientist just shakes his head.

“Oh, Bihytra.” His white coat flutters; he’s almost giggling. “We hardly have anything to worry about now. In fact, this couldn’t have come at a better time. I believe Lex Corp will be taking an even closer look at Wayne Industries tomorrow.”

Bihytra’s eyes brighten in realization, and she lets a out a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, that is good news,” she agrees.

The brunette’s curls bounce lightly as she traipses over to the comatose speedster and throws her arms around him; he sways a little under her weight but quickly rights to his neutral position, gaze focused far away.

“Oh, you are a good boy, my _Wally **Wally** Wally_,” the Bialyian coos as she ruffles his hair. Bihytra digs through her through her purse and locates a small tin.

“Cookie?” she asks the brainwashed boy.

Dr. Morrow scribbles furiously on his clipboard. “I am just dying of curiosity now: what does it mean? ‘ _Batches_ ’ or ‘ _baz_ ’ or whatever?”

Bihytra glances over her shoulder as she pulls open the tin. The thick smell of freshly baked chocolate permeates the hall.

“Oh, that?” she says, carefully selecting a particularly soft gingerbread man cookie. “It means ‘ _luck_ ’.”

“Derived from the ancient Persian in both Romani and Biyalian, I believe,” interjects Psimon. “It’s evolved in modern Biyalian, and the romanization is quite different. But Romani uses it unchanged.”

“Part of a traditional, very old good luck charm. _Bachtz heii sactimos tyri patrague_ : good luck and good health,” Bihytra continues as she turns back to the empty boy.

“Good health starts _here_ , my red-headed friend.” Bihytra waves the sweet treat under his nose expectantly.

Nothing.

Bihytra frowns. “Don’t you want it?”

Nothing.

“ _Eat_.”

Nothing.

“Fine,” she grins and fishes another cookie out of her bag. “Maybe you’d prefer a - _how do you say_ \- snickerdoodle? I made it myself.”

Still Wally stares blankly ahead.

“What’s the matter, Bihytra? Is it being temperamental?” T.O. Morrow looks up from his notetaking.

The stunning brunette pushes the cookie more firmly under Wally’s nose. ” ** _Eat_** ,” she says, a dangerous bite sneaking into her tone. She pouts over her shoulder at her companions. “He’s not following a direct order.”

“Really? How odd,” Psimon walks over to him. “Sit down.”

Wally sinks to the floor.

“Stand up,” Bihytra commands.

Wally stands.

“Go to the couch.” Bihytra points as he complies, stepping through the small puddle of blood that Artemis left behind.

Bihytra pulls a piece of jerky from the fridge and follows him. “ ** _EAT_** ,” she says.

No response.

“Well, that’s annoying,” muttered Psimon. “I don’t sense any rebellion or …”

He places his fingers on Wally’s temples and closes his eyes. “I don’t sense much of anything.”

“Your programming is insufficient,” Bihytra turns and snaps at T.O. Morrow. She spins back to the speedster.

“Play _**DEAD**_ ,” she snarls.

Wally collapses to the floor, and Bihytra, on the verge of a tantrum, tosses the piece of jerky and cookie down next to him.

Psimon crouches down and takes the food up to Wally’s mouth, prone on the floor. “Eat, boy.”

The empty eyes stare unblinkingly ahead.

“A _starving speedster_ is hardly of use,” Bihytra whines. “After all that time and energy I spent on him, he’s just going to **_die_ ** like this.”

T.O. Morrow gives a short laugh and punctuates his final note on his clipboard dramatically. “Is it unstable in any other way?”

Psimon sighs and shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem so.”

“Then no matter,” the white-coated doctor smiles grimly. “They invented feeding tubes for a reason.”

 

* * *

 

_And Wally doesn’t remember the way Robin paused in front of the Zeta beams almost 24 hours ago and tossed him the last of his cookies. He doesn’t remember the rich taste of the chocolate chips as he scarfed it down. He doesn’t remember the way the brunette shook his head in resignation as he steadied Wally’s shoulder, licked his thumb, and wiped a tiny speck of chocolate from his cheek, so small it looked like a freckle._

_“You’re such a slob,” the diminutive boy said, grinning._

_“Yeah, maybe,” Wally grinned back, playfully grabbing Dick in a headlock and dragging his knuckles across his head._

_He doesn’t remember the way the scent of peanut butter clung to his soft black locks; he doesn’t remember the sound of Dick’s muffled laughter as he wrestled his way out of Wally’s grasp._

_“You’re just lucky you have someone who will tolerate you as a friend,” Robin griped, and Wally doesn’t remember the sight of his smile as it spread from cheek to cheek._

_“Yeah,” Wally agreed. “Yeah, I’m pretty lucky.”_

_And he doesn’t remember how he threw his arm over Dick’s shoulder and walked him to the Zeta beam to head home._

* * *

 

Wally doesn’t remember because in that moment, the moment the doctor closes his mouth, deep in the recesses of the speedster’s emerald irises - _now glassy and dull_ \- the last spark, the last bit of Wally that may have believed in miracles or magic or even _luck_ goes out.

 

 

**_End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually had to write this last chapter in IM to a friend because it upset me so much. I've never actually cried while writing something before ...)

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I am taking a different tack on HOW Wally became the mole, but basically this boils down to Wally-is-really-effing-poweful-and-scary-as-hell-when-he's-not-good. 
> 
> The trigger word is blanked out for now on purpose; you'll learn more about it later.
> 
> YJAM Prompt: Wally is the mole. Before the order for cloning came in at Cadmus the boys underwent the standard brainwashing. Robin has been trained against it, Kaldur and Superboy (who's been subjected to it for quite a bit longer) are both immune because they have different a biology that wasn't taken into account. So when the team finally confronts the light and a trigger word is given it's not Superboy that turns. It's Wally.


End file.
